


Stillness

by DarkSide (Dark_Side)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, I cannot put in tag because of spoiler on the story, John Watson is a Bit Not Good, John Watson is a Good Friend, References to Addiction, References to Drugs, Sherlock does not ask for help, Slice of Life, Stream of Consciousness, Suicidal Thoughts, Translation, Worried John Watson, plot twist at the end, references to suicidal thoughts, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 19:14:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20452190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_Side/pseuds/DarkSide
Summary: Things always change and Sherlock knows it very well. He only needs to get used to it and go on with his life.AKAMajor changes in Sherlock's life does not change his feeling of superiority and need for independence.Everybody worries about Sherlock.Narration: Second person PoV (Sherlock)





	Stillness

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock BBC nor its character.  
I write for fun and pleasure.
> 
> Note 1: I'm not an English native speaker, all mistakes are mine. Feel free to point them out for me.
> 
> Note 2: It is a translation. Original work in Italian here: https://efpfanfic.net/viewstory.php?sid=3629741

You loved dancing. You did not often do it and usually you let the music play in the living room only when there was no-one to hear you. When John got married, you were glad he could not dance. You had the chance to dance for days, lots of afternoons, to teach a soldier how to put the grace and tact of a doctor’s finger in his steps, and to teach a doctor how to put a soldier’s discipline in respecting and following the rhythm of the music.  
At the beginning, John was not very graceful. He stepped on your feet various times, he was late or too early on the music, he made the wrong steps, he tightened his grip on you too much. Yet, he was stubborn. Oh, what a stubborn man John Watson was. Sometimes, he snorted, and he stopped to reflect, to remember the scheme of the dance. Some other times, he made the music play from the beginning and he listened to it till he learnt it by heart.  
John improved slowly, but constantly. At the wedding, he was still a little bit rigid, but he danced discretely and, you could bet it, he was enjoying it.  
You loved dancing. You still love it, but things have changed.

You have never been a patient man. Nor have you ever been calm and quiet, nor the kind of man who could stay still for a couple of hours. No, unless you were thinking, you absolutely could not stay still. Not even at night, while you were asleep, the few times you actually slept. You had to move, you had to do something, you had to keep yourself busy.  
The few times you slept, you undid the bed for how much you moved. It was not due to nightmares, you just could not stay still. Also, if you have absolutely nothing to do, you could make your bed. But you never make it.  
You could not stay still. You often walked through London, you ran, you went through some alleys only you knew, you jumped on and off rooftops, you leapt over cars, you climbed swiftly and quickly over gratings, you entered secretly in private places without any permit and you got involved into aggressions more frequently than everyone else. For once, your body, an annoying appendix, kept up with the speed of your brain.  
You loved moving. You still love it, but things have changed.

You were clever. You still are. You knew you could die young, even though you thought you were too cunning and careful to take such a high risk. But you needed to take a break from boredom. The times in which drugs were the solution to your problem taught you that, maybe, you were not quite so careful and cunning. Yet, you would have never admitted it to Mycroft.  
Lestrade gave you a perfect solution to your problem, even though it was not as available as a fix. Sometimes you thought you were going crazy, when there was no decent case, and no-one asked for your help with something tantalising.  
At least there were experiments; Molly could always provide you some parts of corpses on which you could experiment. Back then, you could not do it anymore. You had sunken too deep to focus on something else. Not that before you had other choices. Slicing your wrists was not an option. Nor it is now.  
At least, you got out of it and you moved on. The Consulting Detective was born and grew quickly. Right from the start, the Scotland Yard agents underwent your bad temper, your mood swings, your rudeness and your insults.  
Yet Lestrade had managed to avoid that your relationship with them escalated into a bloodshed. He had enough killings and aggressions without adding those you could make. Even now, your behaviour has not changed and your relationships with the policemen (Anderson and Donovan above all) maybe are even tenser than before. If only things did not change this way.

You were clever. You still are. You were able to understand the consequences of certain actions, words, events since you were a kid. Now your understanding ability has greatly improved. You know more, you are more experienced, you think faster, you are better. You can adapt to situations faster, better, more properly. This has always allowed you to live, or at least survive. You were made - you made yourself control yourself, put yourself together and accept Lestrade’s proposal. You survived and you almost started living again. Despite Mycroft’s bulky shadow.  
hen, John arrived. A small flame that had put Mycroft back in his stupid small corner, which he would never leave. Yet, you were grateful to your brother for always being there, in the darkness, behind you, for weaving the safety net that would have save you if you had fallen from the thin thread you ran your life on. The net that you have always liked to have even though it reminded you of how weak you could be. Like the time of drugs.  
Yet John arrived. The most common man who should have not influenced your life but who had actually become useful, who was nice, a conductor of light (your conductor of light), and a good friend (the only one, the best one). Mycroft’s safety net did not annoy you so much anymore, even though it was always there, ready to catch you. But there was John with you, and he was so much better. He was the safety line around your waist while you ran on the thread various kilometres high, he was the bulletproof vest, he was the hidden weapon on your side, he was the trump card that everyone knew and overlooked. He was the perfect crowning to your situation. You had cases, you had experiments, you had someone. You never thought you could have wished to have someone by your side. And yet, since he arrived limping and resigned, you could not do without anymore.

You were clever, you adapt to the best, you had John by your side. You still are clever, you still adapt, John still is by your side. But, maybe, it is him who makes everything more difficult for you now. Now that everything has changed.

You move slowly. This situation grants your nerves, but you are compelled to adapt to the new condition of everything. Even though a razorblade that shears your wrists could be by long less pitiful and by long more peaceful. Or you could take the gun from John’s nightstand drawer. Drawer that is a flight of stairs away from you.  
Your apartment door is open behind you. You move slowly, carefully, and closed the door in one go. You take a deep breath, ready to face your day.  
You have always adapted. You have always faced problems, you are not the kind of men who surrenders. And you have not changed.  
You leaned on the handrail and carefully went down the stairs. Luckily you are tall and have not too many difficulties. You arrived and the end of the flight of stairs slowly and you stop to catch your breath.  
If John learns about this, he would scold you.  
Your arms are laboured, you make a mental note to exercise more to strengthen them. Yet you cannot stop. You calm your breath and your heartbeat down and you start again descending the last flight of stairs. At the last step, you lose control and slip. You do not fall on the floor, but you crash against the door. It is hard.  
You move away from it and hurry to open it. You do not want Mrs. Hudson to have time to come here and worry about you. You cannot bear it.  
You open the door and go slowly down the one and half steps between you and the pavement. The door stays open behind you. You wait a little, but you do not hear Mrs. Hudson’s steps approaching, and you think you are safe.  
You climb the one and half step and tight your hand around the doorknob. You go back on the street carefully, closing the door behind you. Some pedestrians stop to look at you but one of your glares makes them go back to their business. You have never liked compassion. Actually, you hate it. You hated it on your brother’s face during your darkest time; you hated it on your teachers’ faces who did not see you socialize, even though it was soon replace with detachment and disdain for your honest but mordant answers, and you hate it now while it slips in the eyes of all those who are around you, even though they try to conceal it. You are the same as always, the same as before, but some things have changed.

You slip through the crowd, clumsier than what you would like to admit and more slowly than what you want. Yet, you cannot move faster, nor you want to take a cab.  
You can do this alone, you owe it to yourself and you want to rub it in the faces of those who think you are lying on the floor. Because you still are ahead of others you are better than them, you are cleverer, you observe you do not see, you are superior than all of them.  
You slip through the crowd till the subway stop. You go slowly down the stairs, while the crowd makes space for you and surpasses you. Someone offers to hep and you ward them off rudely. You are as independent as always, you do not need anyone.  
You check how much money you have on your Oyster Card and charge something more. It has been long since you have last taken the subway, unlike John. But from now on, maybe, you have to get used to it.  
You swallow and you prevent yourself from losing you usual superior aura. You cannot, you do not want to be weak. Not again.  
You approach slowly the turnstiles and you immediately notice that the things that have change are by long superior than what you expected. You grit your teeth and move forward to the barrier, careless of other people’s gazes. You swipe your Oyster Card on the scanner and get through the barrier.  
Breathe, remember you need it in order to live.  
You go through the tunnel, go down the stairs and no, you do not try to make your life easier. Even though some things have changed, you want to show yourself, you want to show everyone that everything is the same as before for you, despite everything. Or almost.  
You wait on the platform for the metro to come and you wait for the crowd to get out. You get in slowly, warding off everyone who tries to help you. You do not need it.  
Some people stare at you. You turn your coat collar up and analyse the wagon and all the passengers with a piercing critical eye. You want them to feel like worms, naked and disgusting, vile in front of your superiority. You make it without breaking a sweat and everyone casts their gaze down or turns to look somewhere else in discomfort.  
You step down at your stop and change line. You lose your coincidence for a couple of second. Once, it would not have happened. Once, you would have taken a cab. It does not matter. You have to get used to it. You wait for the next metro for three minutes and you get in only to get out a little later. You resurface from the underground and breathe London grey air in. Fifteen minutes in the subway have almost choked you. You take a while to recognise the familiar scent of your city. You will have to get used to the crowded subway.  
You slip again through the crowd and their stupid gazes, while they step aside to let you through. You reach Scotland Yard and thanks heaven for the existence of the lift. Actually, subways have lift as well, but you have not wanted to take it and now you are tired.  
You call the lift and get in as soon as the doors open. You press the button and wait impatiently for the lift to stop at Lestrade’s floor in order to get in and to finally have a case. Doors opens and you make your triumphal entry. Everyone looks at you, but your entry is not as triumphal as usual. The effect is a bit different, now that things have change a little.

You slip though the corridor with your head held high, but you have to stop when you meet Donovan who blocks your way. She looks down at you, a light smile on her lips. She says nothing and moves aside. You weigh up her and move forward.  
D.I Lestrade’s door is ajar and the man’s voice sounds slightly enraged. He talks on the phone. Some messes should have happened. Maybe something interesting and fun.  
You are praying, aren’t you? For it being good for you. You do not knock, you mutter no word and enter, and Greg (no, it is not Gavin, Grant, Graham, Gideon, it is Greg) turns to you ready to incinerate anyone who has entered. Then he recognises you and his anger get dissipates in a split second. His face twists almost ridiculously, but you cannot see the funny part, while happy relief and sadness fights over its facial expression. He says goodbye to the person on the other side of the line, taking the job of solving some troubles and pays you all his attention.  
He sits down and starts presenting the case. Three gruesome homicides, defaced corpses recovered in highly-busy places of London amongst everyone’s shock and terror. Mass media already shout out for a serial killer and the police inability to handle the situation; Scotland Yard is trapped in the crossfire of journalists, government, victims and citizens.  
To tell the truth, Lestrade urgently needs a solution or he will end up directing traffic, if he is lucky. Dead is the most likely future. If it will be due to stress, the killer, the anger of the victims’ relatives, his superiors, the government or third parties, he does not know. But both of you know that you are the only person who can help him.  
“Do you want the case?” You smile, finally happy.  
“Of course, why not?” Your answer makes his face darken.  
“Don’t you want to ask John?” You frown, bewildered.  
“For your safety.”  
“I can handle myself. I do not need a nanny.” Greg sighs and he is surely looking for a way to make you understand that he only worries about you as always. Yet, your pride is too hurt to let you think about such a thing.  
“I do not mean that. I only do not want to find you on a crime scene for something different from a consultation.”  
“It will not happen.” You reach out with a hand to take the dossier. Greg passes you over the copy he already wanted to bring to your home.  
“As soon as you find something, call me.”

You get out of the room triumphally and goes home calmly, enduring the subway crowd, taking the stairs and warding off anyone who tries to help you. You try to open your front door, but you have still some problems with it. You have almost managed to open it, but it opens by itself.  
“What you thought you were doing?” John shouts at you, standing still on the threshold. He is furious, but underneath that light facade, you know he is worried.  
He walks down the one and a half step and, before you can protest, he is behind you and he leads you inside. You protest, try to free yourself from him, but the times when you could have win over him are gone. The two of you get into the living room and John traps you between this armchair and the table.  
“Did you go to Scotland Yard?” You do not answer, and he rolls his eyes.  
“Obviously, and you did it all on your own. You took the underground as well, didn’t you?” You keep silent. He had no right to treat you that way.  
“Obviously.” There is a pause in which John moves his gaze between you and the room back and forth. Then he sighs, he brushes his face with a hand, his lips bend in a smile and all his rage and worry disappear.  
“You are incredible. You went down the stair on your own as well.”  
You keep sulking even though you are surprised by his words. He should not have treated you that way. He should not have helped you climb the stairs, without asking your consent and without hearing your protests. Because you did not need it, you can take care of yourself and you can do everything you want.  
“Sherlock.” John’s voice is sorry.  
How his voice can express more than a hundred different emotions by saying the same word is still a mystery to you. Yet, his emotions are always clear and sharp, perfectly recognisable in all their subtlest shades.  
John is sorry.  
The profound version, which is a flat lake which envelops him but leaves him alive. There is a hint of pain, the kind he got used to in Afghanistan, the kind that took his breath away for two years, the kind you want to protect him from. And there is something you cannot name. It happens sometimes, more often that you would like to admit. You can describe it, but you do not know how to name it. Maybe one day you will.  
This shade makes your heart ache. It is somewhere undefined between despair, guilt and defeat, the kind that leaves a sour taste on one’s tongue and sometimes make people puke. It has never happened to you, but you know it is this emotion that causes those reactions. And it is also one of those emotions you cannot bear John to feel. You do not want to look at him, you stay still but set your eyes on him.  
“I…” John seeks for the right words. It is strange, for he always knows what to say, how to comfort, how to explain. It is you, Sherlock, the one who usually has trouble talking to people.  
“I am sorry.”  
You snort. You have no use for his apologies and his pity. You look away from him and seek a way to go to your room.  
“Jesus Christ, Sherlock! Why do you never listen to me?”  
You stop and try to understand. You come to some conclusion, but you are not sure those are the right ones.  
“I would…”  
“John.” You interject him: you do not want to hear those words. It was not his fault.  
“It was not your fault. You were not in the condition, nor in the position to avert what happened.” You affirm logically, blasting away any emotion, “I only need to get used to it.”  
You smile, and John is almost surprised. He set you free from where you are, and he lets you go.  
“You should start with stopping leaving a mess everywhere you go.” It is the only thing he says, and he removes the newspaper stuck under the wheel of your wheelchair.

**Author's Note:**

> Yep, the major plot twist is disability.  
Sorry for not putting the tag at the beginning, but I did not want to spoil the surprise.
> 
> So, thank you very much for reading, I hope you enjoyed the ff. Feel free to feed the author some comments, I always appretiate it.
> 
> PS: I know you should never treat a person with disability the way John did. And I do not condone it (I hope Sherlock's reaction explains it for me).  
If anyone felt hurt, I am sorry.


End file.
